pantryslut

forced masculinization

She is crying as they crop her hair short. They scrub her face with harsh soap until all traces of paint are removed. Nails are clipped short. One of them rubs smudges of dirt into her cheeks and behind her ears. A single tear scrapes a path clean.

They dress her in worn, baggy clothing, a work shirt with frayed cuffs, corduroy trousers. They hand her a rusted metal lunch container. "You're a son now, not a daughter," they pronounce, and push her out the door into the street.